To Tell the Truth
by NotAContrivance
Summary: Andrew figures out that Siobhan isn't who she says she is. It's finally time for Bridget to tell the truth... but does the truth really matter in the end? Slightly AU.


This story is supposed to be set several months in the future but less than a year, probably at least six months in the future. There are no spoilers that I can think of. Also, I had no idea this would be AU so soon, but the whole Gemma plot of the latest episode can be assumed to not have happened. Anyway, the basic premise is that Andrew finds out/realizes/is told that Siobhan is not who he thinks she is, but he doesn't know her real name and the details. As much as I'd like to fill in a bit more of the context, I can't do that without revealing important plot points, but feel free to ask any questions you have in a review. And, despite my best efforts, it may be a bit out of character, since anger seems to be Andrew's go-to emotion, but well, I suppose you can just pretend that he's mellowed a little in the six months or so that Bridget's been there. Also, I'm still not sold on the ending, but I kinda had to put something down or else I'd never post it.

Also, about Bridget's name... I'm not trying to say that it's a Welsh name. It's a Gaelic (i.e. Irish) name. However, I do believe the Welsh version of said name, which doesn't even remotely resemble "Bridget", is somewhat related to one of the Welsh words for power. Why do I say this? Because, despite the fact that some online name websites claim that Bridget and its related names mean "exalted one", one of the Welsh words for power does kinda resemble the Welsh version of Bridget. I mean, I don't really know much about Welsh, but they're both Celtic languages, so I figure, eh, why not?

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and feel free to tell me what you think, if you loved it, hated it, or whatnot.

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><p>She knows what's going to happen the minute Andrew walks in and calmly—too calmly—asks her to follow him. She's lived with him long enough to read the tension radiating off of him in waves, the twitching fingers, the vaguely disheveled appearance. And she knows that he knows the minute he slumps onto the bench in their closet, itchy fingers jerkily undoing his red tie and carelessly tossing it to the floor. But she doesn't turn and run or even try to avoid this moment. Instead, she sits down next to him on the bench in the dressing room that has never felt as small as it does now. He unbuttons the top buttons of his shirt and breathes. And she takes off her shoes and waits with bated breath for the other shoe to drop.<p>

"I... I _knew_ there was something different about you, but I didn't know what," Andrew admits wearily in the dark room, committing his head to his hands. He pauses for a moment of torturous silence. Bridget's whole body tenses, readying itself for flight. "The way you couldn't sleep, and you kept forgetting things and acting so _different_ from the woman I knew... but you always had a ready excuse, and I _believed_ you," he continues, sounding vaguely incredulous. He takes his head out of his hands, but he doesn't look at her. "I _wanted_ to believe you," he repeats a bit numbly. Then, finally, he looks up at her, and she's stricken by the vulnerable look in his eyes. It strikes at a soft part of her and makes her feel terribly guilty for lying to him for so long.

He looks away from her, knowing he's revealed too much, sides of him that no one's meant to see but her dead sister. "I wanted to think you could change," Andrew says in a voice filled with such longing (and she knows it's longing for her dead sister—that's the worst part) that it makes her stomach hurt. He pauses for a moment, looking down, clenching his hands together. His lips are tight. She's waiting for him to be angry because she can understand that, and she can deal with that. She can't deal with _this_ Andrew, this man who her sister broke so carelessly, like a toy she'd outgrown.

"Because I was tired of being dead inside." She flinches at the nakedness of the statement, at the way Andrew's folded in on himself, shut down like some sort of fortress. He lets out a long, nearly ragged sigh. "Tired of living a lie and hardening myself against you so it wouldn't hurt as much when I saw the way you looked at me." This is the most honest he's ever been with her, and the both of them know he's only this honest with her now because he knows she isn't Siobhan. He looks absolutely miserable, slumped over like that. His eyes glitter with unshed tears. Bridget wants to comfort him, the way she would if she were really his wife, but that isn't her place now that the charade's gone. What is she to him now but a stranger who knows him very well?

"Like I was getting in your way. You resented me; you hated me. You didn't even want me near you... that's why I was gone so often. I couldn't bear to be around, knowing you didn't want me there," Andrew confesses, emotion thickening his voice. His accent gets stronger, makes him sound more foreign and yet more... himself, she supposes. He's still staring at the wall, at the shelves and mirrors like they hold some kind of answer, having been witness to these two Siobhans. He takes a breath, running his hands through his hair, rubbing his eyes. It hurts him to go back to that place in his life, in his marriage, where he was Siobhan's puppet, her prisoner, forced to live according to her dictates. "And you would smile and say all the right words in front of others, but every time you looked at me, I knew you felt nothing for me," he says finally, in a shaking voice.

Unable to restrain herself, Bridget puts her hand on his knee, the same way he did months ago, but with a different sentiment behind it. He doesn't look at her face because he doesn't want to see her apologetic, pitying expression. He doesn't want to feel this weak, this subject to some other Siobhan. "Andrew, I-I'm sorry..." Bridget manages in a wobbly voice, feeling for him so much that tears come to her own eyes. Her words seem so insignificant, so meaningless in the face of his grief. She can't undo what her sister did, can't make up for it or apologize for her, no matter how much she wishes she could. Still, worrying about him makes her forget her own fear. She squeezes his knee, trying to encourage him.

Andrew turns toward her, looking ragged. "Why are you sorry? I wasn't married to _you_ then," he spits a bit more harshly than he intended. He is unable to look at her for too long, trying to understand what this all means. He presses his face to his hands and sighs again, stilling once he realizes something. He removes his hands from his face and looks at her, really looks at her, for the first time since he said they needed to talk. "I don't even know your name." His throat is dry. He stares into space for a moment, still trying to process everything and failing miserably. Andrew stares at her and continues even more disbelievingly, "I... I've shared my life with you for months, my bed, my thoughts... and I don't even know your real name." She can hear traces of outrage in his voice, mingled in with the disbelief and awe and confusion. Bridget shrinks away from him a little, but he turns to her, an urgent look in his eyes. She knows what he's asking.

She sighs, gazing heavenward for a moment, searching for reassurance. Then her eyes drop to Andrew's. "I'm Bridget. Bridget Kelly." She almost holds out a hand for him to shake, now that they've been properly introduced, but that would be awkward, right, after everything? She leans back a little on the bench, wishing it were softer, wishing she was more comfortable. "I'm Siobhan's twin sister," she admits a moment later, leaning back on her hands. She's nearly bitten her lip all the way through. It's a relief to finally tell him, to finally tell _someone_. There's no going back from this, no pretending this conversation never happened, but, no matter what happens, she's glad he knows now. It's what he deserves, an honest wife. She turns her head, forces herself to look at him. He's just sitting there, staring at her as if he's seeing her for the first time. It's only fitting, she supposes; he kind of is.

"Bridget," Andrew repeats numbly, still in a daze. He tests the name on his tongue, trying it out, tasting it, the sound of it. He glances over her and thinks it suits her. He remembers from his Welsh classes that the name derives from the word for power and strength, force, vigor and virtue. Her name means strong-willed. There are so many things he wants to ask her, but he can't find the words. He doesn't know what to start with even if he could find the words. She nods encouragingly, like a teacher, finding it in her somewhere to smile. She doesn't know it, but this smile endears her to Andrew even more. Andrew knows now. And, even though she's absolutely terrified, she's glad he knows, glad she isn't keeping secrets from him anymore. She knows now that this is all up to him, once he wraps his mind around it, what he's going to do. She'll accept whatever he decides. She really couldn't blame him for kicking her to the curb. That would be what she deserves for deceiving him, for being a fraud and a phony, and playing at games way beyond her comprehension. He swallows, after the longest time, and finally asks her, "Why?" His voice is low, unused, almost cracking.

Bridget stares down at her hands and wonders where to start. "Siobhan never told you about me because I'm not the kind of sister you mention," she begins. The next part is hard, so she gulps. "I... ruined her life. And I'm..." She doesn't say more because if Siobhan wanted to tell him about Sean and everything, she would've. Bridget falters for a moment, glances up at him, and looks down, swallowing hard, a look of sorrow appearing on her face. "I'm trash," she admits, wiping furiously at a stubborn tear that's escaped. Andrew opens his mouth to argue with this, but Bridget doesn't see because she's not looking at him. She just nods and continues bluntly, "I'm not like you. I was a drunk and a junkie, and I did a lot of horrible, _horrible_ things. I had a criminal record, and every time we were out together, I never failed to embarrass my sister with my stupid, drunken escapades." She grimaces as she says it, but she can't shy from the truth here. Her honesty is brutal and ugly and not at all self-serving; Andrew finds that a refreshing change.

Finally, she looks up at Andrew, but lifts her head slowly like she's afraid to do so. And she is afraid to look at him, afraid to see how he looks at her differently because she isn't the beautiful, perfect, untouchable Siobhan he's put on a pedestal. She inhales sharply and tears her eyes away from his face. She doesn't look at him long enough to see how he really feels about it. Andrew's face is utterly blank, but he's not judging her. He can't, not after all the questionable things he's done and said with little to no remorse. "I made a lot of mistakes, and I regret that now," she tells him, meaning every word. She fails to see the understanding flash in his eyes, the realization that that's why she gets on so well with Juliet.

She takes in a shaky breath, wrapping her arms around her waist uncomfortably, as if she's cold. Andrew has never stopped looking at her, and he reaches out to touch her, to wrap his arm around her instinctively, but then he remembers that he doesn't _really_ know this woman, and he stops. There's one question that's weighing pretty heavily on his mind, but he won't ask that. He can't anyway, not until she finishes. She pauses for breath. "I got into some trouble with the law, and I saw something I shouldn't have. This mob guy wanted—_wants_," she corrects forcibly, shuddering a little at the thought, "to **kill** me. And I was terrified because I knew he'd get to me sooner or later if I talked... so I ran. Siobhan had invited me to visit her, so I ran to her because I knew she was the only person who could help me."

Andrew's eyes widen in surprise; he hadn't thought that was what she was running from, hadn't imagined anything nearly that bad. He wonders how different Siobhan was when Bridget knew her, what sides of her had she seen that he'd never even glimpsed? She looks up at him with eyes full of tears and wipes them with the back of her arm. "And I missed her. A lot. I thought about her every day," she murmurs, wiping again at her tears. "She was... different. And I didn't think anything was wrong until I woke up on the boat and she wasn't there." She's hiccuping now, unable to stop crying. It's harder to understand her. She gives him a pleading look, and something clenches low in Andrew's stomach, clenches like a vice. He's about to find out what happened to his wife, only he's not sure he wants to know. "I looked for her... I tried to find her, but all I could find was her stupid hat floating in the water... It was like she'd disappeared." Even now, he can hear the panic in her voice as she tells him this.

Andrew's stomach sinks like a stone in the ocean, and, just like that, he _knows_ what happened to his wife. And he knows she's not dead. This realization pierces his heart. She hated him so much that she disappeared and ran away from him to start life over again somewhere else. He gets lost in thought for a moment, wondering where she is and what she's doing... and does he even care? He ponders this but comes to no conclusion.

Bridget shrugs, sniffling. "I... I figured she was dead. And then I got back to the beach house, and she'd left all of her things behind... and no one knew I was here, no one knew what had happened... And it seemed so easy, just pretend to be Siobhan for a couple days," she continues quickly. It doesn't cover up her guilt, but Andrew can't really find it in his heart to blame her, not when his wife turned her back on him and their life together and just left it all behind for what? For something better? "Like I hadn't done it before? Like it would even matter if I was her for a few days while I tried to figure out what to do?" She gives Andrew an apologetic look, and he closes his eyes, unable to bear that look. Bridget doesn't get why he's so stricken, but she feels the tears come faster. His rejection stings. She wonders what he's going to do with her now.

She wipes her nose with a scrap of something, sucking in a deep breath, trying fruitlessly to stop crying. "I... I'll go, if that's what you want," she offers hesitantly, trying not to panic, unable to take her eyes off him. His eyes are still closed. "I understand if you don't want me here anymore," she says, nodding, "And I don't blame you. You didn't sign up for this." She's a mess with mascara and snot and tears all over her face, but it's hard to be self-conscious when she's in agony. She tries to strengthen her resolve, swallowing hard and forcing herself to look away. "I can be out of your hair by the morning," she tells him, swiping frantically at her eyes, pretending like she doesn't care, like it'll be easy to go. There are no traces of tears in her voice, at least.

Bridget doesn't want to go. She knows that she'd stay here forever even if that meant having to pretend to be Siobhan for the rest of her life. Being Siobhan is the best thing that's ever happened to her, and she owes her sister a great debt. It's both sad and ironic that her sister's suicide has given her this life and these chances, imperfect and not hers, but still, something _worth_ living, even if she's always on edge and looking over her shoulder. She can never thank her sister enough for this, these borrowed, stolen moments of happiness, of being a part of something and connected to other people, people who aren't lowlife scum.

Andrew shakes his head. "Don't be ridiculous, Siob-Bridget," he chides, correcting himself when he starts to say the wrong name. Her name is not and was never Siobhan. His voice cuts through the tension-thick air, and she glances over at him in astonishment. That's Andrew for you, always business. He looks at her, grabs her hand suddenly, harder than she expected. Bridget starts but doesn't stop staring. "You've got no place to go," he murmurs in that same, low, almost pleading voice that he used when he'd said the same thing about Juliet. Andrew has a softer heart than most people realize. She thinks he likes strays.

He's still holding her hand, and Bridget can only wonder what this all means. It occurs to him that he _should_ be angry with her, should be livid at all the lies and pretending and so much more... yet, for whatever reason, he isn't furious at all, not even one bit. It's like all of that doesn't matter, even though it should. "You've stayed this long. You might as well stay," Andrew says quietly. He's not looking at her now, but his tone says this is his final decision. He squeezes her hand as if to encourage her, but she just stares at him in sheer disbelief, thinking he sounds almost resigned.

In all the times she'd imagined this conversation (had nightmares about it, even), she _never_, **ever**, not even in her wildest dreams, thought he'd want her to stay. She blinks rapidly, aware that she must be staring at him like some kind of moron. Then, after the longest silence in the world, she takes a shuddering breath and asks, "You want me to stay?" Andrew nods very, very slowly. He's still emotional; she can see that in his eyes, but she has no idea what he's thinking. And, for whatever reason, Bridget can't breathe. "Even after... everything? What I just told you? You still want me to... to st-stay here? With _you_?" she stammers, gaping at him. Her voice catches painfully on each and every word. The crying's made her throat raw.

Andrew cocks his head and looks at her, pulling her hand closer to him. "Is it that hard to believe?" he asks smartly, a bit sardonically, almost like he's offended. He's actually joking with her a bit, but she doesn't realize it. He knows she's not Siobhan now, and he can't take it personally anymore. Here's his chance to start over. Bridget actually nods. New tears trickle down her face, but she makes no move to wipe them away. She reaches out hesitantly for his shoulder. Her fingers are shaking.

Her hand finally makes contact with his shoulder when their eyes meet, and he signals to her (somehow, he doesn't know how) that it's all right to touch him. She allows herself a half-smile, and her hand touches his shoulder. It feels cold through the thin fabric of his shirt. It is only then that he realizes the rest of her is shaking. A moment later, she crumbles and collapses against him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She rests her head on his shoulder like she's very weary, buries her face in the crook where neck meets shoulder and sobs. Her entire body shudders against his with loud, convulsive sobs. He wraps his arms around her too, pulls her closer to him, trying to comfort her the best he can. And then he feels her lips moving against his shirt, just a little above his heart, and he realizes she's trying to say something.

He rubs her back awkwardly, the way he did during her bouts of morning sickness. She's so tiny, nearly skin and bones in his arms, not at all like solid Siobhan when she let him touch her. He wonders how he never realized that before. A lot of his blindness to the truth was selective, wishful thinking, him seeing only what he wanted to see. He tries to whisper soothing things to her, to quietly shush her the way he'd seen her comfort a crying, sick Juliet all those months ago. Her tears quiet a little, and that's when he hears what she's whispering to his chest. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, Andrew," she murmurs like a litany, like a prayer. After each "thank you," she presses her lips to the same spot on her shirt as if expressing that gratitude. He hugs her a little bit tighter, pulling her closer still.

One of his hands comes up to stroke her hair. It feels like a foreign gesture. "Shh, Bridget, it's okay," he tells her. He repeats this over and over again. And then, he licks his lips, pausing for a moment, and bends down to whisper in her ear. Bridget shivers—but not unpleasantly—when she feels his breath on her neck. "I'm not angry with you, Bridget. I... I forgive you." He swallows hard after saying it, a bit alarmed that he's forgiven her so easily, before even half of his questions, the really important ones, are answered. And that's when it hits him, and it steals his breath.

Bridget lifts her head and pulls back enough to look at him properly. She tries to catch her breath and licks her salty lips. And, _God_, the way she looks at him, with shining eyes full of hope and gratitude and so many other things, it's almost enough to do him in right there. His heart breaks for her, for what she's been through. Bridget takes a breath and tries to smile, but she still stares at him as if she can't believe her luck. She doesn't say a word, just stares at him, not knowing what to say. Her eyes seem to say that she can't think of a single word that's good or powerful enough to express how she feels right now. He doesn't know or understand how he can read her better than he could ever read his former wife, especially not when he's only known her for a few months. Maybe that means something, like maybe he was meant for this.

So, once again, he saves her. He takes a very deep breath and clears his throat, trying to regain some of the seriousness and protective cover he's lost. He needs to make sense of this now, and there are so, so many things he needs to know. But Andrew knows how he feels, and he knows, more than anything, that he doesn't want Bridget to leave. He doesn't _ever_ want her to leave. He tries to change his expression to something more neutral, hoping to God that she doesn't see the look on his face, that it doesn't show exactly how he feels. "How much of it was just an act?" he demands. Even he's surprised at the harshness in his voice, but after years of playing games with Siobhan, he just _needs_ to know.

Bridget flinches but tries to cover it up. He feels bad, but it can't really be helped. He's anxious enough to dismiss it and ignore the way her hurt expression tugs at his heartstrings. Bridget glances down and plays with his collar, utterly silent. He's still, petrified that he'll find out right now that the whole thing's been an act, that these past months have just been the choices of a desperate woman whose life was dependent on this, on being her sister. That she's just been using him to perpetuate that cover.

A part of him argues desperately that Bridget never had to make nice with him, that maybe it wasn't a choice born out of necessity. And he remembers the anxious look on her face, how nervous she was the first time they'd slept together, how uncomfortable she was under his stare. He remembers the way she averted her eyes, the embarrassed smiles, blushes, and nervous laughter, how she hadn't relaxed until he'd kissed her, soft and slow, and helped her down on the bed. And he thinks all of that might've been real. She might never have had to do that. She certainly didn't have to reconcile with him on her sister's behalf; keeping him at a distance would've been an even better way of keeping her identity secret so she could do what she wanted. She could've easily avoided his scrutiny by not doing anything. So she must've _wanted_ to have some sort of relationship with him, the voice in the back of his head concludes quite persuasively. He wants to listen to that voice, to have it be right about her, but he can't be sure until she tells him.

She's still fingering his collar, her fingers fast, her breathing faster. Then, just when he thinks he's going to have to ask her something else, Bridget looks up at him, eyes still red and swollen. She swallows hard, and her fingers still on his shirt. She gives her shoulders a tiny shrug, giving him a helpless look. "I... I don't know," she says in a choked-up voice. His own throat tightens like he's wearing a noose. She looks at him, eyes still cloudy with tears. "I don't know when it started being real. I think it was a long time ago. It just... got easier because I... I liked you," she confesses in a voice so small he can barely hear her. A smile tugs at her lips and falls away as she turns away, uncomfortable.

Andrew considers this for a moment, a single moment. As he thinks, his fingers deftly remove the pins from her hair, tossing them carelessly to the floor until he's gotten every last one, and her wavy hair tumbles to her shoulders like, like waves of amber grain or golden threads—he's not a poet, Andrew. He usually leaves this sort of thing to Henry. Henry was always better at writing his wife love poetry than he was. He runs his hands through her hair, fondly untangling the messy strands that glint in the light. Bridget leans into his touch. He knows somehow that she likes her hair best like this. He likes her hair best like this too because it reminds him of getting ready for bed and waking up to his wife's smile and freshly-made coffee.

Siobhan never knew how he took his coffee. Or his tea. Making him coffee was someone else's task—his secretary's. He likes that Bridget knows this about him, that she cares to take the time to make him coffee in the morning, even though the smell makes her nauseous.

He doesn't ask her the question he's really dying to know, not yet. His mouth gets dry when he even _thinks_ about that question, so he knows he can't ask it, not yet. Andrew licks his lips and stares at her. Bridget stares back, even though she looks off-balance. "Why did you stay?" he asks slowly, considering it. He's curious, really. He knows he isn't the easiest person to live with (obviously since his first wife divorced him, and his second apparently would rather run away than face him even one more time), and he certainly didn't go easy on her, so he wants to know why she stuck around. She didn't have to stay. She could've run. She probably should've, after all. It wasn't like he and Siobhan didn't have the kind of money for her to make a break for it, for her to leave the country and go anywhere she wanted.

Of course, he'd probably have followed her if she did. He knows he would've after that second night when she'd said she was tired of playing games and that she wanted them to be nice to each other for real. He was intrigued; it was like something in him had caught fire, and he had a reason to care again. Bridget doesn't know that, can't possibly see how he changed since she never knew him before, but he _knows_. Bridget shrugs, looking at him almost coquettishly with that pretty little flush of hers. Her dress is slipping off of her shoulder, and he wants to press his lips to it and kiss his way up her neck, and rediscover this woman he doesn't know at all but knows intimately on some deeper level he can't even explain. He aches to do this, and the strength of this ache surprises him.

"You... you _needed_ me," she says bashfully, glancing down shyly. She still can't believe it, not even as she looks up at him through her lashes. Siobhan was never shy, never modest, never acted like she was undeserving or grateful. With her, he was always the one who was lucky to have gotten her, but he never really _had_ Siobhan. He only ever had a part of her, never all of her. "You and Juliet and Gemma and everyone," she adds, smiling faintly. "No one's ever needed me before. I liked it," she confesses, lacing her hands together behind his neck and smiling so beatifically. Her green eyes sparkle, even in the dim light of the room. She's staring at him the way she does sometimes. Whenever he catches her staring at him like that, he thinks he's the luckiest man on earth... to have found this again, only better.

These past months have been better, far better than even the honeymoon period of his marriage to Siobhan.

He thinks she might kiss him, but she averts her eyes and moves back a little, looking a bit chagrined, as if she thinks she's being foolish. Her hands loosen around the nape of his neck. He smiles back easily, moving closer to her. "You're damn right, Bridget," he says firmly, moving closer still. His lips are almost close enough to brush against hers. She's staring at him with wide eyes, trying to take all of this in. His grip is firm around her. "The things you've done for me, for Juliet... You've made our lives so much better," he tells her, staring at her intently. "You have no idea how much," he breathes, meaning it. She can feel his breath on her lips, and it makes all the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. His hands settle on either side of her waist, rubbing her hips. Bridget's breath comes up a little short.

He thinks she was like a breath of fresh air, and he knows he can't wait any more. He _has_ to ask her now, can't stand one more minute of not knowing. His hands tighten involuntarily on her waist, and he stares deep into her eyes. "Bridget," he begins seriously, never once taking his eyes off hers. She shifts a bit, probably uncomfortable with their position or the way his hands are digging into her sides. Or, maybe, of course, it's the baby making her uncomfortable. He tries to relax his grip a little. Andrew takes a deep breath. He wants to close his eyes, to give himself a minute away from her to collect himself, but he can't do that, can't let go of her when his arms and heart are filled with her.

He licks his lips and lets out a little hiss at the frisson of pleasure he feels when his tongue accidentally brushes against her bottom lip. He swallows hard, heart in his throat. Andrew has never been this nervous and absolutely terrified in his life, not even when he proposed to Siobhan. "Did you mean it when you said you loved me?" he asks urgently. It's such a cliché, and he wants to wince at the way he sounds, but the answer to this question literally means everything to him.

This truth is too important to trivialize. Bridget's eyes widen at the question, but she _had_ to know this was coming. It was only a matter of time. Bizarrely, Andrew finds that he can't remember the first time she said it. She's said those words so many times to him, so much so that it's hard for him to remember a time when she _wasn't_ saying it, more than Siobhan ever did in the course of their entire marriage and courtship, and Andrew has never wanted anything to be true so badly. He's never wanted anything this badly in his entire life. He wracks his brain, trying to search for that first moment, but he comes up with nothing but a montage of "I love yous" said with more and more affection.

Bridget moves away and swallows hard, lips tensing. She doesn't say a word, and he's absolutely petrified that this is her way of saying no, that all of those pretty little words were more of the pretty little lies she's been spinning. It would be just like her to be silent to try and avoid hurting him. Her sister had never spared his feelings.

But, just as he's beginning to panic, it occurs to him that Bridget's nervous. She's tongue-tied. Her pulse is all over the place, and he's sure her eyes are mirroring the panic and fear in his own. This realization clears the fog in his head and emboldens him somehow with a calm he has never possessed. Bridget doesn't want to say it without a word from him, without knowing how he feels about her—not Siobhan—her, Bridget. Andrew moves his hand to the small of her back, rubs it soothingly, and then he waits patiently for her to say something. And he'd wait forever just to know. Bridget swallows again and looks like she's a little nauseous. He can't help but worry. Yet, somehow, he doesn't know how, he thinks that Bridget is the strongest person he's ever known...

She steels herself, squares her shoulders, and sighs. She stares right back at him, unafraid and completely open, and then she utters a single word, one word that could make or break him. "Yes." She admits it freely, breathlessly, and it feels like a great weight has been lifted off her shoulders. An even greater weight than telling him she was Bridget. A smile creeps across his face, and he stares at her like he's never stared at her before, open and completely unguarded. Bridget thinks it's a beautiful sight, and she returns the grin as best as she can. It feels so good to finally hear it.

He's about to ask how long, but he's so ridiculously, gloriously, insanely, incandescently happy that he can't get his thoughts in a straight line, let alone say anything just yet. He doesn't know how she does it; as if she senses the direction of his thoughts, Bridget answers the unasked question. "I think I've been in love with you since my birthday. Probably before. But that was when I knew," she tells him rather bluntly, smiling softly. She lets out a little chuckle. "Henry noticed. Can you believe that?" she continues almost incredulously, shaking her head. She wipes at the glistening, slowly-drying traces of tears that remain on her face.

"He said I was looking at you like you were the only person in the world who mattered to me." She says this quietly, smiling to herself. "Even he saw how happy I was with you," she says lovingly, fingers stroking the back of his neck. "I never lied to you about that, Andrew," she pronounces solemnly, offering him a shy smile and then backing away a little. She's well aware this might all be too much for him, too twisted. It's not every day that one finds out that his dead wife's twin sister is in love with him. She tells herself she's ridiculous to expect anything from him since he's just found out that his wife is dead and that she's someone else, but the hope still rises in her chest, rendering all her proclamations futile.

Now he knows where they stand. She doesn't ask him how he feels, probably figuring that he's still processing all of this, but he notices her smile dim a little. And, while he likes that she doesn't ask him, likes that she realizes he's going to have to get to know her and relearn everything about her, he's not going to make her suffer. "Bridget?" he asks cautiously. She looks right at him and tries to smile. She can sense he's going to say something serious and that she might not like what he has to say. His eyes are so serious and so intent that she doesn't really know what to expect. She's hoping for something good, but even that could be too much. She doesn't want him to say things he doesn't mean because he feels obligated.

He brings his hands to her shoulders and pulls her closer. Their foreheads are almost touching. "Bridget, I don't care who you are or what you did before." That's partially a lie; he does care who she is, who she was, but that doesn't matter as much to him as who she is here and now. What came before doesn't matter, not really, because, in the end, what is it going to change? Bridget tries to shy away from his stare, tries to push him away, but his grip on her shoulders is firm and pulls her into facing him. She really doesn't want to hear what she thinks he's going to say, doesn't even want to think it.

"Listen," he almost pleads, moving to try and get her to look at him, "Siobhan _left_ me, and you never did." He pauses for a moment, loosening his grip on her shoulders. He stares at her bare shoulder, pressing his lips to it, and he sighs against her skin. "Honestly, though, I'm glad she's gone." And there, he's said it, and he feels lighter, somehow. He doesn't feel guilty. She left him, and he's sure she's off somewhere in Europe having a better time than she ever could with him. She's free now, and he owes her nothing. He doesn't remove his lips from Bridget's skin because he doesn't want to be parted from her ever. He closes his eyes, explaining quietly, "She was my wife, and I loved her, but it wasn't working out. Things weren't right between us, and we both did a lot of really wretched things to each other. But I can forgive her all that because she brought me _you_."

As he says this last bit, he opens his eyes and pulls away from her sweet, pale, soft skin to look her in the face. He gives her a significant look. He puts his hands on her arms, and his lips quirk into a smile, one he hopes is as dazzling as he feels. "Bridge..." She beams at him when he says the nickname, and he decides he likes that a hell of a lot better than "Shiv." She _is_ a bridge, a bridge to a better life. Also, Andrew had always hated that his wife's nickname sounded like something you'd get stabbed with in prison. Or was that a shank? "You're the best wife I ever could've asked for." And yes, he's well aware of the irony in that sentence, but that's why they're going to get remarried in a few months' time, after she has the baby, according to plan. He understands that now, understands why she insisted, why she didn't want many people there.

He smiles at her sardonically, adding honestly, "Better than I deserve, I assure you." Bridget shakes her head, giving him an amused look, unable to repress her smile. He smiles at her all the way from the bottom of his heart, and then he says it. "I fell in love with you the moment I saw you taking care of Juliet."

Bridget's eyes glimmer with fresh tears and, for a moment, she simply stares at him. Then she smiles at him the same way she always does when he says how beautiful she is or how lovely she looks or some other trifling compliment, proud and moved yet unsure, like she doesn't deserve it. Then she pulls him closer. "I was hoping you'd say something like that," she murmurs into his neck, stifling a sob. Gently, he pries her away from him, so he can look at her lovely face, even as reddened as it is from all the tears. She's smiling through the tears, not even bothering to wipe them away, so he does, with the pads of his thumbs. And then, finally, he kisses her.

Bridget sighs into his lips, stumbles in his arms. She wasn't quite expecting such an outburst of passion. He brushes his tongue against the close of her lips, and Bridget opens her mouth to his. It's the same as before, only better, because he feels now that there are no secrets between them, no silent wall they cannot overcome or break down. Her hands knead the skin at the summit of his back. One of them comes up to play with the short hairs above his neck, tangling in the strands, massaging his scalp. His hands are pulling her closer, and then there's the feeling of her body pressed against his. He can feel her every breath as they breath together, can feel the swell of the baby between them, and he has never loved her more than he loves her right now. They only separate when they run out of breath, chests heaving, cheeks flushed.

He's of a mind to pick her up and carry her to the bedroom, wanting nothing more than to back her up on the bed and ravish her. Taking it slow like he did the first night, relearning and retracing all the familiar map of her body, all of the curves and contours, the peaks and valleys and plains. He fully intends to do all of this, to make love to Bridget, and is in the process of attempting to extricate himself from the embrace in order to do so (there's a tiny problem with this; that is, that he doesn't _want_ to let her go now that he knows her, not even for a moment) when Bridget stills. Bridget pulls back from him, taking a big step backwards. Her pretty, perfect lips are turning into a frown, so he frowns back, confused at the sudden change in her.

She's shaking her head. "You don't know the anything about me. How can you..." She trails off, unable to finish her sentence, her thought. Her eyes are sad again. It's only when he looks her in the eyes that he realizes that she's afraid, afraid he'll agree with her, afraid he'll change his mind once he finds out who she really is. He sees in the set of her shoulders that she's terrified he'll be disappointed once he gets to know the real her. She still can't believe it, but here she is, looking at him like that as if trying to talk him out of it.

Andrew takes her by the shoulders and looks her in the eyes, refusing to let her shy away from his gaze. "I know that you sing in the shower," Andrew says with a smile, and Bridget attempts to look away, embarrassed. He's noticed lots of differences between the two women he's lived with, differences that were all too easy for him to ignore at the time but now come to him quickly, so easily. "I know that you eat meat and that you love Chinese food, the greasier the better. And I know you like your tea with two sugars," he continues fondly, remembering the tea times she's insisted on, probably in an attempt to get to know him better. She never fails to mock him for taking his tea with milk. "I know that you like your hair loose." He looks down at her stomach and places one hand on top of the familiar swell. The baby's kicking. Bridget's about to make a soccer joke when Andrew speaks. "And I know you think you're pregnant with twins." Her expression turns indignant.

"I _am_ pregnant with twins, Andrew," she insists, huffing a little, "The doctors just don't know it yet." She crosses her arms over her chest, looking highly affronted. Andrew secretly enjoys provoking this argument. No matter what he or the doctors say, she remains utterly convinced that there are two babies inside her. "Identical twins run in my family. It took the doctor forever to figure out our mother was pregnant with twins. She was practically _in_ labor by the time he realized it. And I'm telling you, there are twins in there." She gestures to her stomach. "I would know," she persists, very determined. She almost blanches when she realizes she's alluded to her sister, but then she remembers and relaxes. Andrew tries and fails to suppress a long laugh, and she gives him a vaguely peeved look.

There are so many other things he could say, but he doesn't feel the need or the urge to innumerate everything he knows about her. It would spoil the fun of figuring it all out. He knows the important things; what she values, what matters to her, how she feels. Everything else can come with time. He takes his hand off her stomach and, catching her hand, brings the back of her hand to his lips. "I know that you love me. And Juliet. And the baby," he murmurs against her skin, pressing kisses to her hand. Bridget shivers, a smile easing its way back onto her face. He pulls away from her skin, beaming. "I've a lifetime to get to know the rest of you, Bridge," he proclaims, squeezing her hand and promising her with his eyes. He pauses a moment, and the look in his eyes turns decidedly mischievous as he drawls, "But, if you'd like, dear, we could get to know each other better in the bedroom."

He's already tugging on Bridget's hand, frowning at the fact that they're both still dressed, when she shoots him an amused but mildly exasperated look. Her grin, however, gives her away, and she allows him to pull her into their bedroom. "We've got a lot of... catching up to do," she concedes, eying the buttons of his shirt like she wants to burn them off. Andrew pushes the other sleeve of her dress down, off her shoulder. Her dress doesn't fall to the floor like he wanted, though he does have a better view of her cleavage. "I've got a lot of questions for you," Bridget warns with a coy smile, leaning in to whisper in his ear, "Starting with your middle name." It had always bothered her, never knowing his middle name. She presses a kiss to his throat before he can even answer her (of _course_ he can't answer her after that), and then she pushes him onto the bed.

The mutual interrogation begins shortly afterward.


End file.
